


Sister of the Wolf

by WoefulBadger2



Category: Warhammer 40.000, space wolves - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoefulBadger2/pseuds/WoefulBadger2





	Sister of the Wolf

Part 1:  
Vulgenar worked the forge like a god of fire and metal. As a mortal he had worked the hammer and bellows before the first of his beard hair had begun to sprout from his nomadic chin, although back then the fires were temporary and crudely made whereas the ones he worked now were carved into the heart of the mountain itself and was funded by a galaxy spanning empire that his old mortal, primitive, tribal brain would have never even been able to comprehend. The change into a son of Russ in the service of the immortal emperor had enhanced all of his senses, but most importantly to Vulgenar was the enhancement of his abilities to craft masterpieces in steel and stone. The long walk to the volcanos of the boiling sea had been tough but the pilgrimage to Mars to finish training had been tougher as it meant spending time away from the beloved Fenris, he was glad to be back, unfortunately his childhood friend had been lost as he failed the test of the iron gauntlet and as punishment for wasting Iron Priests time was turned into a Thrall-Servitor like hundreds before him.   
Meanwhile in a lesser known part of the citadel fang Markara was making plans for the next great hunt, a new sword will need to be acquired, that was certain. Born five centuries previous, Markara had been an Astartes for most of their life, originally becoming a son of Russ at age the age of seventeen. One problem however was that they had never actually fully considered themselves a ‘son’ of Russ, this was not the views of a heretic feeling shame toward their legion, it was due to a nagging dysphoria that had haunted them since birth, especially since at birth Markara was called Ulfar. He was no Son of Russ, she however, was a proud Daughter of Russ! It had taken a lot of courage to come out as what on Terra of old would have been referred to as ‘transgender’ in what was possibly to most butch legion in the entire galaxy. Worried she was possessed by chaos she had gone as far as consulting Stormcaller himself, only the most powerful of rune priests would ever know for certain if there was a taint of the gods of the traitors. Njal had assured her that although uncommon on Fenris, it was not unheard of for people to be born the wrong gender. It had been decided Markara would be an Ambassador on behalf of the Space Wolves by representing them in talks with the Adepta Sororitas (hopefully an end to the old rivalry could be achieved if they were to talk woman to woman) but that was of no concern at this moment, there was a hunt that needed to be planned and for that a new sword was needed so it was about time she made a visit to the Iron Priests.   
It took a lot to distract an Iron priest from their work. Once the metal had been placed upon the anvil and the hammer was striking out impurities, not even the Emperor himself could interrupt a true and devout brother of the forge. Burning slag in spark form embarked like a pack on conquest at every strike. Vulgenar’s gauntlets were like his skin and the hammer an extension of his arm, this is what he was bred for and this is what he was always meant to do. Tink, tink, tink, out went another kink. He lifted the blade and turned it slowly in his hands, examining each and every inch like a father would look at their most beloved child, it was an excellent example of craftsmanship and would have made any tech marine proud but it was far from good enough to be grasped by a Fenrisian. He threw it onto the pile of scrap to be re melted. “When I first began my training I thought such an action as a waste” he said to the shadow in the doorway, “But I soon came to realise that the only wasted sword is one that is taken into battle yet does not get to taste he blood of the foe, if it never left the forge then it never saw battle and thus it is not possible for it to be a waste”.  
“Not all foes bleed” replied the shadow as they came forward into the warm glow of the fires revealing themselves to be Markara, “Necrons are made of living metal, they have no blood”.  
“Hail vargynja” Vulgenar always called her that, it had been his mortal tribe’s word for she wolf, “What brings you to my humble anvil?”  
Markara moved respectfully forward and told him of how she was being sent on a diplomatic mission to a shrine world, “But first I wish to go on an expedition to the wastes, to track a pack of wolves and perhaps score some trophy furs to offer to the sisters as a gift”  
“That sounds all well and goof but I do not see how it affects me. I work a forge, I would be more than useless out in the wastes. Have you perhaps considered asking some of the scouts in training for aid? I’m sure their captain would jump at the chance for extra training.”  
“You have misunderstood me brother. I need a sword.”  
Vulgenars face lit up “Well then” he said gleefully, “You have come to the right wolf”.


End file.
